Free Giri by Marc Olden Page A

mind to return to reality.
    The telephone rang.
    Shocked, Decker stopped. The natural order of his life could not have been more disrupted than if someone had taken a shot at him.
    It rang again and he stared at it. No one had ever telephoned him here. Not even the department. An angry Decker walked to the enclosure containing two desks, file cabinets, plaques, trophies, photographs and billboards. He never wanted to be called here.
    The phone rang a third time. He picked up the receiver.
    “Did I disturb you?”
    LeClair. Shit
    Decker, chest rising and falling, didn’t trust himself to speak. The heat of resentment almost blinded him. Finally, “Finishing up.”
    “Good. Eases my conscience somewhat. I understand a dojo’s a sacred place. Don’t want to interrupt a man who’s reaching out for the Almighty. Couple of things I wanted to touch base with you on.”
    “LeClair, I’m due in court this morning. We’re filing new charges against the pimp who attacked Kanai’s son-in-law. It’s now murder. I’m supposed to be at the arraignment, since I’m the arresting officer.”
    “Heard about Mr. Tada. Shame. Alan Baksted. As they said of Quasimodo, does that name ring a bell?”
    Decker untied his black belt and hung it on his shoulder. “Kanai says he’s a partner in the Golden Horizon.”
    “Was, my man. Got blown away last night in Atlantic City. Someone left a half dozen torn fifty-dollar bills on or about his person.”
    Frowning, Decker chewed a corner of his lip. “Terminal case of sticky fingers. He took from the wrong people, looks like.”
    “It would appear, Mr. Manfred. It most certainly would appear. You and I must have words. For one thing, I’d like to know where Dorian Raymond was last night. That little action in Atlantic City has all the earmarks of a shooter who knows his business. Mr. Raymond, if you remember, is a man you’re to keep an eye on. What time are you due in court?”
    “Nine-thirty.”
    “Gives us two hours—”
    “With all due respect, you’re forgetting something. I’m not due to see you today and I do have other cases, not to mention a whole new set of forms to fill out on the late Mr. Tada.”
    LeClair hesitated. Decker knew the prosecutor was trying to decide how hard to push. “Well now, Mr. Manfred, answer me this, if you will. When can I expect word from you on Dorian Raymond’s whereabouts last night?”
    Survival.
    And who gets thrown to the wolves? Act kind.
    Decker closed his eyes. “I know where Dorian was last night.”
    LeClair waited.
    “Atlantic City. Called his wife from there sometime between nine-thirty and ten P.M.”
    “All right. Yes, yes, yes. Love it. Now, let’s squeeze from the other side. How about getting in touch with your boy Kanai and finding out if he’s heard from Marybelle about coming up with the money for a share in Golden Horizon.”
    “Kanai’s burying his son-in-law, so he’s not going to be any help to us for a while. The burial involves certain rituals, ceremonies. The Japanese regard death as a sacred sorrow. If Baksted got whacked for the pigeon list—”
    “Which seems more than likely—”
    “—it makes more sense to wait a week or so before approaching Kanai.”
    “Kind of glad I went out on a limb for you, Decker, and made the department give you that attaché case. Cast your bread upon the waters, so to speak.”
    “Kanai’s no fool. We’ll have to give him something from time to time, just to keep the game going.”
    “Like what?”
    LeClair wasn’t the type to give up anything. His next unselfish thought would be his first.
    “Information,” said Decker. “He smells something’s wrong with Marybelle. He knows when a cop starts asking questions, it’s time to start counting the silverware. If we get proof that Marybelle is a Molise front, Kanai will want to know.”
    “Decker, I’ll tell you something that really happened. My grandfather was a black Southern Baptist preacher. Had two sons.